Mr. S. Wiley, or Slick to his friends and the folks at the FBI, is my 93-year-old “personal advisor”, formerly from New York City. Mr. Wiley used to be my financial advisor until he lost all my money, and that of the rest of his clients. I’ve been holding him hostage in an attempt to recoup my loses from his loved ones. However, strangely enough, no one’s come looking for him despite my many ransom letters.

Summer’s garden season is winding down, gardens are flooding our county kitchens with buckets of tomatoes, squash, corn, peppers, cucumbers, beans, okra; more food that I can put on the table in one meal, so the refrigerator drawers are stuffed.

Counter tops and pantry shelves are packed with shining jars of garden blessings, as colorful as grandmother’s crazy quilt, both destined to warm up a long winter night.

It’s pretty scary out there isn’t it?
You know what I mean.
It doesn’t matter where you work or where you live in this old world. It’s like everything has dropped off a cliff. Many families are nervously waiting to see what happens next, if it hasn’t already.

Goodbyes are never easy, but they are often necessary. This one is no different.

For those who may not know, I have received a promotion and will now serve as publisher and editor of the Central Kentucky News-Journal in Campbellsville. The CKNJ is owned by Landmark Community Newspapers, Inc., which also is the parent company of The Springfield Sun.

Some 38 years ago I worked on Main Street at a clothing store called Cunningham’s. You wouldn’t know it now, but Cunningham’s was a family-run business that operated for almost 150 years in Springfield.
It was the anchor of all commerce in downtown Springfield, and probably hit its peak in the 1940s. It was located right across from the present-day Springfield State Bank. The last Cunningham, Clifton, died a few years ago, and the store sits empty today.

Not because I was a “green” freshman or because I was a little fish in a bigger pond. Rather, it was terrifying for me because I was bullied.
There were a group of girls that got a rise out of picking on my twin sister, our best friend and me. It started out with spitballs being thrown at us in the gymnasium bleachers. The spitballs eventually turned into big wads of bubble gum. And, of course, name-calling was a common occurrence.

“All that had been used to make it a dwelling place, by my folks on back, by Grover and me… all the memories of all the lives that had made it and held it together, all would come apart and be gone as if it never was.”from Sold, a short story by Wendell Berry

The purpose is to get people to quit. Simple as that.
The Federal Drug Administration recently announced that beginning September 2012, it will require larger, more prominent health warnings on all cigarette packaging and advertisements in the United States.
The changes will be the first in more than 25 years and are “a significant advancement in communicating the dangers of smoking,” according to the FDA.